Good Catholic Boys
by somehowunbroken
Summary: They were raised as good Catholic boys, and it affects everything they have ever done... slight CM, nothing graphic.


Author's Note: Hello, all! This is my first foray into Boondock Saints. I used to write for other fandoms, when I was younger and my writing was poorer. Hopefully I've improved a bit since then. There's nothing explicit in here, as I'm just testing the waters with our boys, but it DOES mention slash, and it IS of the twincest flavor. Don't like, don't read, and please don't flame. Constructive criticism is more than welcomed, especially since I'm new to the fandom :)

Disclaimer: I don't own it; you probably don't, either, though, so you can't sue me. Although if you are Troy Duffy... I didn't hurt them; I just played nicely and put them back where I found them when I was done.

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Good Catholic Boys

Connor and Murphy MacManus walked silently from the cathedral, their mother walking just as silently behind them. The nine-year-old boys didn't fidget, didn't glance away, didn't cause any of their normal trouble as they proceeded out the doors.

Mrs. O'Connell looked at the twins as they passed, then looked at her own sons, ages seven and ten. "They're such good Catholic boys," she sighed, resigned, as if she had gone through this before. "Why can't you be more like them?"

They were good Catholic boys, so they didn't cause trouble in church.

They were good Catholic boys, so they remembered the story of Cain and Abel and they were each others' keepers. So when Connor saw Murphy go down, the twelve-year-old ran into the fight, throwing punches left and right, until he reached the body on the floor. Connor reached out a hand and Murphy took it, hauling himself to his feet. They turned as one back towards the four boys who had originally jumped Murphy, and ran back towards them, fists still flailing.

They were good Catholic boys, so when Seamus Donally began to pick on them for having no Da, they turned the other cheek. When Donally made lewd suggestions about their mother on the same topic, however, they turned with a cold synchronized precision and knocked him out cold on the sidewalk with a dual punch to the chest.

They were good Catholic boys, so when their Ma got drunk with their relatives or her friends, it was the thirteen-year-old twins that the bartenders called, to collect her and bring her home and clean her up. The boys quietly tended to their mother and tucked her safely in her bed and, in the morning, didn't bring it up.

They were good Catholic boys, so when Kathleen McIntyre took Murphy's fifteen-year-old hand and put it under her shirt, he pulled it back out. He confessed it to the priest, who gave him no punishment since it wasn't his doing and he put an end to it.

They were good Catholic boys, so when Connor took that same hand the next night and put it under his own shirt, Murphy hesitated

thought _this is wrong_

but he didn't pull his hand out.

Neither of them confessed that, but each secretly began to think to himself, _maybe we're not such good Catholic boys._

But they were still good Catholic boys, so even after all of their friends stopped going to Mass each week, they went. Their Ma had stopped forcing them to go by the time they were seventeen, but they were up early every Sunday, now forcing Ma to get up and dressed and out the door.

They were good Catholic boys, so when Ma gave them, on their eighteenth birthday, the rosaries that were their legacy – their only link to the father neither really remembered – they promised to treasure them always, and to never forget their faith. The little pieces of wood traveled with them everywhere they went, at first because they were a point of pride for the boys, but gradually they because more of a point of faith.

They were good Catholic boys, so they kissed their Ma twice before they boarded the plane that would take them to a new life in Boston.

They were good Catholic boys, so their first priority in their new home – after finding a flat, of course – was finding a church. They found a place where they could be accepted, where their own particular brand of Catholicism would not be questioned, where they could believe as they had at home with no interruptions. Their faith, though it had always been a part of them, was finally becoming their own.

They were good Catholic boys, so the twenty-two-year-olds never acted on the feelings that terrified them when they touched – sparks of heat if they accidentally brushed against each other in the flat, scorching fire from a casual touch, smoldering flames under the skin when they were drunk and slung arms about each others' shoulders in the bar.

They were good Catholic boys, so they helped out when they could, sending money home to Ma when it was feasible for them to do so, if only so she could brag to anyone who would listen down at the Anvil about how her boys were doing right by her and making her so proud.

They were good Catholic boys, so when twenty-four-year-old Murphy kissed Connor, they accepted the love that God had given them. Of course it was from God – who else could grant two people such a blessing, such a love for each other? The wrongness that had stopped them for so long was behind them as they accepted what was laid out for their life.

They were good Catholic boys, so when, in Mass one Saint Patrick's Day, they both heard a calling, they listened, though they did not yet know the meaning.

_When I raise my flashing sword  
And my hand takes hold on judgment  
I will take vengeance upon mine enemies  
And I will repay those who hate me  
O Lord, raise me to Thy right hand  
And count me among Thy saints_

They were good Catholic boys, so when the Russian thugs strolled into McGinty's as if they already owned the place, they tried to placate them and avoid fighting. Their upbringing had taught them how to fight, but also how to avoid one when it wasn't the best course of action. The Russians, however, didn't want to play nice.

They had to fight. For Doc. For honor. Ma would understand.

They were good Catholic boys in a good Catholic hospital when Doc came to them to tell them about a man named Paul Smecker and, being good Catholic boys, they immediately decided to turn themselves in for the deaths of the Russian thugs.

"Yeah, that's what he s-said," Doc told them, and the boys were startled. They'd not spoken to anyone of what had gone on. How could this Smecker know?

Unless he was an ally. One that God had sent to them to help them in a mission that they were only beginning to understand.

They were good Catholic boys, so when they both woke at the same time from the same dream, they knew that the message that had pulled them both from slumber was their true calling. And how much clearer could it be?

_Whosoever shed man's blood  
by man shall his blood be shed  
For in the image of God –  
redeem man._

And their instinctual responses to the message more than sealed the deal for them.

"_Destroy all that which is evil –"_

"– _so that which is good may flourish."_

They were good Catholic boys, so when God sent them their first mission via Ivan Checkov's pager, they didn't hesitate, didn't flinch, just offered an "Amen" and went of their way.

They were good Catholic boys, so they were in a constant search for confirmation of what they already knew to be true. So when they walked into that weapons storehold for the first time, they were gratified but not altogether surprised to see an Irish flag painted on the wall.

_While the wicked stand confounded  
Call me with Thy saints surrounded_

They were good Catholic boys, so they did God's work, but also took care of those they killed. The pennies in the eyes, symbolically for the toll of Charon, in Greek mythology. Crossing the hands of the dead over their bodies. A prayer that they had taken in with their mother's milk, another nearly-forgotten memento from their absent father.

_And shepherds we shall be  
For Thee, my Lord, for Thee  
Power hath descended forth from Thy hand  
That our feet may swiftly carry out Thy command  
We shall flow a river forth to Thee  
And teeming with souls shall it ever be  
In nomine Patri, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti_

They were good Catholic boys, so when the nightmares began and Connor took his refuge in Murphy's arms, neither thought that God would deny them this bit of comfort. They belonged to Him, and to each other, and they needed this. They needed to just lie in each others' arms as they shivered and remembered the blood and gore that hadn't bothered them in the adrenaline-filled aftermath of the actual job, but which was making them sick to their stomachs now, in the shadows of their own flat. So they held each other in the darkness, not saying a word, just shivering and shifting and huddling under a multitude of blankets in the warm Boston night to hide from the ghosts in the corners.

They were good Catholic boys, so they went to Mass the next morning and prayed over and over. They left feeling cleansed. The nightmares stopped.

They were good Catholic boys, so they continued to go to Mass, even right after killing, even while on the run. They no longer went to confession, however. They confessed their sins to each other and found absolution in familiar arms. Hail Marys have been replaced with whispered repetitions of _Murphy_ and _Connor_ in the same reverent tone, and were just as full of grace. Our Fathers became comforting embraces and nights spent doing nothing but holding each other in the aftermath of blood and gore, drowning their nightmares in each other until they could ask their Lord for forgiveness for something that He had ordained them to do.

They were good Catholic boys, so when Smecker entered the confessional in the church that they happened to be attending, and when Rocco ambushed the priest, Connor knew that God wanted him to interfere and save the innocent from his own. He found confirmation in another unlikely source as the priest spoke to Smecker.

"_The laws of God are higher than the laws of man."_

The priest's murmured addition of "Forgive me, Father," didn't go unnoticed, but neither did it bother him. The priest's personal beliefs couldn't change his own convictions.

They were good Catholic boys, so they tried to accept help and to not be prideful. They called Smecker and told him of their plans, of their need for him to look into Il Duce for them, to buy them time to hit Pappa Joe and to get to New York.

They were good Catholic boys, so when Pappa Joe shot Rocco in the chest, the two broke from their restraints and overpowered the Mafioso sent back in to torture them, so they could properly send their friend on to his meeting with the Father. One penny in each eye. A cross marked on his chest. A prayer offered over his body.

They were good Catholic boys, so they recognized their father as the man spoke to the Father. The man who had so recently tried to kill them, whom neither man truly recalled, was the newest ally in a fight that both were just beginning to realize was bigger and older than themselves.

They were good Catholic boys, so Murphy apologized for calling his father a motherfucker. He bit the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing at the irony of the phrase and offered a quick prayer for forgiveness to the Lord he so willingly served.

They were good Catholic boys, so they called their mother as often as they could, which was not as often as either would like. Out of loyalty, they told her about finding Da, and wished that they had been with her as they heard her cry over the phone, five thousand miles away.

They were good Catholic boys, so they got on the next plane home, dragging their reluctant father with them, to visit Ma and make everything right between them: _honor thy father and thy mother._

They were good Catholic boys, so they prayed and went to Mass and did the Lord's work as He had asked them to, as best they could.

In the end, being good Catholic boys was all they could do.

It was enough.


End file.
